


All This Love

by Rajatarangini



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rajatarangini/pseuds/Rajatarangini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes six moons of staying apart, a lost raven, a clutch of rumours, and a bout of jealousy for them to admit their love for each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably my worst bit of work for ASOIAF, but something I wrote to get out of the writing rut I'm currently in.

The Riverlands are in the bloom of spring.

The last time he was here, the frozen banks of the Trident were full of snow, splattered with the blood of the men who died battling the Others. But now, Jon sees the melted snows birthing little green shoots on the thawed lands, the swelling waters of the roaring river swallowing the rotting remains of man and animal alike, stubborn green grasses already surging through the tiniest of gaps between the fallen trees and the withering skeletons and the shattered stones of the destroyed smallfolk houses.

Jon marvels at how quick nature is at tiding over the loss of human life, reclaiming the lands laid waste by the successive wars that ravaged the Seven Kingdoms.

He marvels at the beauty of the clear blue skies and the sparkling waters of the even bluer Trident _(as blue as Rickon’s eyes,_ he thinks quietly, though he knows that there’s another pair of identical blue eyes that he has in mind), at the many stunning shades of green and the occasional, delightful smattering of tiny flowers.

And he is awed by the spray of colours the setting sun scatters across the evening skies, a streak of bright red reflecting on the river on whose banks his father had perished, the familiar hue of red, somehow, only increasing his longing for home, which all the beauty of the Riverlands cannot abate.

It has been six moons since he left for King’s Landing to meet his Aunt; and despite all that he has had to face in his life: the ignominy of bastardy, the loss of his family, injuries, _death,_ the Others… he decides that these six moons have been some of the toughest of his life – because _nothing_ in Dany’s glittering court or her warm hospitality or the Riverlands’ beauty can compare to the wonder and the sense of belonging the North holds for him: in its shivering nights and its tough people, in its shorter days and starlit skies, in the Castle of Winterfell that grows higher and stronger with each passing day, shaped lovingly by the hands of their many smallfolk who are helping in its rebuilding, in Shaggydog’s loud howls and Rickon’s cheerful laughter as he rides past Jon, as much at home on a horse as Arya once was.

But most of all, he finds himself longing for his little boy, his dark-haired Robb, for the sound of his heartfelt giggles as Jon tickles his sides, and his bright eyes and unsteady feet as he runs to his mother, even for his frightened cries when Rickon tells him scary tales he heard in Skaagos, and for the soft fall and rise of his chest as he sleeps in his crib with Old Nan watching over him, Robb’s tiny thumb tucked in his mouth and his little body curled up into a ball under the furs.

But there is something else he has missed ( _someone_ else, to be precise).

Jon may be Lord Protector of the Kingdom and Rickon the King, but there is no doubt that it is _Sansa_ who is the most well-versed of the three siblings— _cousins_ at being an astute ruler, binding the North and the Riverlands together, at playing the dangerous game of thrones with his Aunt, who casts her desirous, violet-eyed gaze at the two kingdoms that have ceded from the seven she thinks herself entitled to; Sansa is the one who held their realm together, managing an infant Robb and a wild Rickon (who was more a Skaagosi wildling than the King in the North back then), while Jon went off to battle the Others with his aunt, finally decimating the fearsome creatures barely two years ago.

And he has missed _that_ Sansa, he finds himself admitting – in Dany’s court when he felt his acute lack of tact and experience in fending off poisoned barbs and impolite jibes with a witty remark and a pretty smile like his lady wife is so adept at.

He has missed Sansa immensely, every time Dany spoke of her wish to unite their kingdoms under little Robb, who is the only one apart from Jon and Dany to have dragonblood in his veins.

He misses her every time the smallfolk of the Riverlands throng to him, requesting him for a blessing for their child, for a word with their boy-King who dwells miles away in the North, for the promise of a job at Winterfell for their lads, for coin to buy seed for their lands and feed for whatever remains of their cattle. His lady wife would have soothed their worries in an instant, he knows – with a kiss on the brow for their babes, and a kind word to the weary wives, bread from their own stores for the rake-thin children and a solemn promise to the men that they would be welcome at Riverrun where her kind Uncle Edmure would give them food and coin and land to till if they worked at repairing the waste that the war lay to the Riverlands.

He misses her every time a raven arrives from the North, containing Rickon’s words in Sam’s hand. Sansa has written to him only twice – and both times, he found himself reading her words with an eagerness that is most unlike him, smiling at even the matters of governance that she writes to him about, at her words on how Robb is growing up and insisting on playing at swords with Rickon, at her hope that her lord husband is well and in good health and that he shall return home soon… reading and reading and groping for words he doesn’t find for the sentiments her letter evokes in him.

He has missed holding court with Sansa at Winterfell, watching her strive to dispense justice to all those who come with their grievances, and then sit with Rickon in his solar, asking their wild brother his views on the rulings Jon and she make, always allowing Rickon to have his say, listening to him patiently, correcting him when he is wrong, and lovingly embracing him when he speaks indignantly in favour of those who have been treated unjustly.

He has missed having meals with Sansa; missed the times she lets Robb have his way, allowing their little boy to eat by himself, and listening to her quiet chuckles and Rickon’s loud laughter when Robb feeds more of the porridge to his tunic than himself.

He has missed riding through all of the North with her, visiting their bannermen and their smallfolk, ensuring that they know there are Starks in Winterfell again, that the Long Night is over and the Others are gone for good, that they are safe and cared for, with justice and peace reigning in their lands.

He has missed the evenings Sansa and he spend in the nursery, when Robb refuses to sleep, keeping the castle awake with his loud wails. He has missed listening to her sweet lullabies as she sings to Robb, his tiny fist clinging to Sansa’s robe as he finally falls asleep.

But most of all, (and he feels something like shame and guilt bubbling in his belly at the thought, because for all that they have been married for four years, he still cannot forget that his wife was once his sister, even though she isn’t his sister at all), he has missed those occasional nights he spends in Sansa’s bed.

Sansa and he are nothing like some other couples he has seen, Jon admits; there are no affectionate touches or sweet words or spontaneous kisses. Theirs was a marriage that was made for the realm, to secure the Stark line if gods forbid something untoward happened to Rickon, to fulfil their shared wish of staying at Winterfell, to unite their warring claims (her blood claim to the North before they had found Rickon, and Jon’s kingly title that the northmen bestowed on him when they chose him to lead them).

They aren’t in love like he knows Lady Catelyn and Father— _Uncle Ned_ were; nor are they anything like the famed lovelorn couples in the fabled songs Sansa once loved to sing and listen to.

But when they are in bed, Jon thinks they are all of that and more – in the way Sansa seems to lose her dignified, courteous persona when his fingers and mouth work their magic on her, her cheeks flushed pink and her throaty little moans escaping the iron grip she always holds on herself; the way she urges him on with her heel, whispering for him to move faster inside her; the look on her face when she reaches her peak, and the way she clings to him when they are both finished, her soft hands shyly tracing the stab wounds on his torso, while he plays with her hair, remembering not Ygritte, but the way Sansa’s red locks used to shine brilliantly under the sun when she walked around the courtyard many moons ago, just days before Jon left for the final battle with the Others, her belly huge with an unborn Robb, her arm linked with Jon’s as they spoke of all they wanted for their child, Rickon following them around, declaring that Shaggydog and he wanted the baby to be a boy and not a girl.

He misses Sansa, Jon realises, more than he can put into words; and he thinks of all that he has missed about her, all that he has come to value about her, those little quirks of hers that he finds so adorable, her patience and generosity with all the men and women they rule over, how a single word from her can stop the squabbling between Lords Blackwood and Bracken, of her fierce, fierce joy when he had returned to the North alive after vanquishing the Others, when she had stood at the castle door, a wide-eyed Robb on her hip and a cheering Rickon by her side, not embracing Jon like Rickon did, but her glittering blue eyes conveying more than her words could have; and that shy smile she gave him when she invited him to visit her bedchamber weeks after he returned from battle, telling him quietly that she wanted to fill the castle with their children – with a little Arya and a little Bran, and maybe even a Ned and Cat for her parents.

He thinks of the incomparable comfort he finds in her arms after he has made love to her, her unbound hair spread like a halo around her face, and her heart thudding in tandem with his as she lies on top of him, breathless and spent and shyly gazing into his eyes; but most of all, he thinks of what a loving mother she is to Robb, and even to the wild terror that Rickon is, and he finds himself smiling one of his rare smiles that are still quite hard to come to him when he doesn’t have his family around.

With each day that he rides closer to home, with each day he spends away from her, some at the castles of the minor Riverlords, a couple of them at Greywater Watch with Lord Reed, and with Lord Manderly who insists on hosting him for a week, Jon finds his yearning for Sansa deepening, in the days that seem to crawl by, and the nights he spends alone in his tent.

And by the time he is finally at Wintertown, the castle looming in the distance, Jon knows he has fallen irreversibly in love with his lady wife – a realisation that gives him an unfamiliar, fierce sort of joy, coupled with a strange sort of apprehension, a feeling heightened when he thinks of the love he has found for her after all that he has lost in his two lives – family, friends, people whom he loved and who loved him in return – and he finds himself deciding that he _has_ to tell her just how much she has come to mean to him, even if she does not quite reciprocate what he feels for her.

When they ride up to Winterfell, he finds his apprehension all but disappearing as joy takes over and he searches for the three people he loves.

“Jon! You’re back!” He hears Rickon’s loud shout before he sees him, his little King forgetting all the courtesies that Sansa has taught him, as he runs to Jon, clinging to him before he can even disembark from his horse. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” Rickon says, “Like Mother and Father and Bran, but you’re back, Jon, you’re back!” For all that he is two and ten now, Rickon sounds more like the little boy who had cried when he saw Jon off to the Wall, years and years ago.

“Rickon,” Jon says, his heart soaring as he hugs the boy, ruffling his long red hair and grinning as the clearing of Sam Tarly’s throat makes Rickon remember his manners.

“Lord Protector, Prince Jon,” Rickon says, stepping back and standing straight, a little contrite now, though he’s still smiling that impish smile of his. “I am pleased to see you return back to Winterfell.”

“As am I, my King. I am pleased to return to your service,” replies Jon with a smile, though his gaze is already moving through the crowd of people gathered to welcome him, looking for the two people he desperately wants to see: his wife and child.

And then he sees him, his little Robb, safely held in a maid’s arms.

“Robb,” he whispers, almost rushing to his son, exhilarated at seeing that round face and those dark curls and those grey eyes that are so like Father’s— _Uncle Ned’s,_ he corrects himself, though the words sound alien to him.

“Robb,” he repeats, marvelling at how Robb seems to have grown bigger since he last saw him, losing a little of the chubbiness in his cheeks, his face looking a little longer, while he has grown a little taller.

He seems nothing like the shy boy he was, hiding his face in the crook of Sansa’s neck when Jon met him on returning from the war. This Robb stares at him boldly, much like the uncle he was named after, even as Jon hold his arms out to hold his little boy, to smell the clean, unique scent of his dark hair, and feel the soft warmth of his arms around his neck.

“Robb, do you not remember me, Robb?” he asks the child, who watches him curiously now, but makes no move to come to Jon’s waiting arms. Jon feels a little tug at his heart; he should have known Robb wouldn’t remember him after so many moons apart. But he had hoped for as joyful a welcome from his son as he got from Rickon.

“Robb, it’s me, your _father_.” Jon persists, smiling when Robb’s eyes widen, and he seems to recognise the word.

“Father,” Robb repeats, clearly, not fumbling with the ‘ _f’_ like he used to do before Jon left for the south.

“Robby, this is Jon, your father. Sansa tells you stories about him every night, remember?” chimes in Rickon. “About Longclaw, and Ghost, the wolf, and the Wall—”

“Woof!” repeats Robb, eagerly now, his eyes lighting up at the mention of Jon’s deceased direwolf; but along with the usual pang at Ghost’s death, Jon feels his heart skipping a beat at the thought of Sansa telling their son about him when he was away.

“I can tell you all about wolves,” Jon says to his son, “Come here.”

Robb watches him warily for a moment, a look in his grey eyes that reminds Jon of Arya, before he holds out his little arms to Jon, who takes him from the maid, elated at finally having his son with him, kissing his brow and mussing his dark curls, and chuckling when Robb spots Shaggydog in the distance, wriggling out of Jon’s grasp, already eager to go to the direwolf as he yells, “Woof! Shaggy! Here!” in a high-pitched, childish voice.

“Where’s Sansa?” he asks Sam, when Jon has had dragged Robb away from Shaggydog and deposited him with his maid, listened to Rickon tell him of all his exploits at sparring, and had refreshments offered to him, greeted the many people of the castle who are pleased to see him return, but there’s still no sign of Sansa.

“The Princess is in her chambers, resting,” says Sam, though there’s an unsettled look on his round face as he speaks, fiddling with the sleeve of his maester’s robes as he doesn’t quite meet Jon’s eyes.

“Resting?” asks Jon, worried. Sansa never rests, not at this hour of the day. She is always busy with one thing or another. And she should have been there at the castle gates with Rickon and Robb; she is always mindful of her duties, of her courtesies. For her to be absent to welcome her lord husband is something most unlike her. “Is she ill, Sam?”

“No, my lord—Jon,” replies Sam, seeming uneasy again.

“I will see her now,” says Jon, already walking towards her chambers, dread bubbling in his gut, mingling with anticipation again, wanting nothing better than to lock his gaze with Sansa’s blue-eyed one and take her in his arms.


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For something that I typed up in barely any time, I was rather surprised at the response this got. Thank you :)

She lies on her bed that was once her Mother’s, the chamber a little uncomfortably warm now. She pushes away the furs covering her, struggling a little when she sits up.

The heralds outside announce her lord husband’s arrival; and for half a moment, she is tempted to join them at the castle gates, to welcome Jon, to finally feast her eyes on him, on the smile that will surely grace his face when he sees Robb, and to hear his indulgent laughter when Rickon will tell him of all that he has been up to since Jon has been gone.

But the temptation is only momentary, as she remembers Myranda’s words about what has been going on between Jon and the Dragon Queen in the south, of the reason why Jon delayed his return home despite knowing of his lady wife’s pregnancy.

Her musing is broken as she hears a joyful shout that is unmistakeably Rickon’s.

And, despite her disgruntlement with her husband, she cannot help but smile as she imagines Rickon running into Jon’s arms. Her brother hasn’t stopped asking about Jon since he left for the South. For all that Jon is only Rickon’s cousin, Sansa knows he is more of a father to the boy. Rickon looks up to Jon, loves him and views him with the kind of reverence Robb and Jon and Bran held for Father. And Jon, for his part, treats Rickon with as much affection as he treats little Robb with, teaching their King all that Father had once taught his two oldest sons (for Jon shall always remain Father’s son despite his dragon blood), about warfare, and command, and ruling the realm, and making their people respect and love him.

The voices of the men and women gathered to welcome Jon trail in from the open windows of her bedchamber. And she finds herself imagining Jon descending from his horse, his dark hair windswept, his jaw bearded, those silvery scars on his face, and his dark gaze searching for Robb.

She smiles as she remembers Jon with Robb – the awed look on his face when she first told him she was with child, the way he hesitantly put his hand on her belly when she asked him to feel an unborn Robb’s soft kicks, the way he took utmost care of her all through the nine moons, even through the battles that were on around them, taking time out for her, and offering her his arm to walk around the castle when she got tired of being cooped up in her chambers, taking charge of the reins of the realm and of a naughty Rickon when she was close to giving birth, using up the last of the lemons in the stores to have the cooks make her favourite lemon cakes when she felt hungry in the middle of the night, that spark in Jon’s eyes when Rickon chattered on and on about how he couldn’t wait for the baby to be born, the way Jon had barged into birthing room when Maester Tarly was worried she wouldn’t make it through the birth, when Jon had seemed so pale and terrified and held her hand and whispered words that she could make no sense of in her weakened state, but words which gave her strength and comfort nonetheless… and the wondrous look on his face when the Old Nan laid a tiny Robb in his arms, his little body smeared with blood, but his soft cries echoing loudly in the sudden, awed silence that fell in the chambers, as Jon stared at their child in wonder, his grey eyes sparkling with what Sansa knew were tears of joy.

The babe in her belly kicks her now, painfully, bringing her out of those precious memories of her lord husband. And as she rubs her stomach with a sigh, she finds herself unable to put a stop to thinking of how much she has missed him over the past six moons.

Theirs was never a match made for love. But she has long known – it has been almost a year – that she loves her lord husband for more than just duty. She thinks of him now, her anger and annoyance dissipating a little – of the days they spend in the solar discussing the kingdom, when Jon patiently listens to all her views, never devaluing them only because she is a woman… of the afternoons Jon spends sparring with Rickon, never raising his voice at the boy even when Rickon turns cranky and impatient when he loses to Longclaw’s swift thrusts… of the evenings Jon and she spend in the godswood sometimes, Rickon and Robb with them, their son curiously walking around on tottering feet, pulling at the wildflowers and splashing in the pool, while Rickon listens eagerly to the stories Jon tells him, ones that Father used to tell them years and years ago, in a tone that sounds as much as Father’s soft one did on those evenings they spent in front of the fireplace listening to tales of giants and battles and of brave Starks long dead…

She thinks of the nights with Jon, too, with a little flutter in her belly, of Jon’s mouth on hers, tasting of ale, of the scars scattered over his body, of his hand on her breast and the other in her hair, and his manhood in her, making her come apart with his name on her lips.

But when she remembers what Myranda told her, of the things her friend witnessed with her own eyes in the southern court, of the reports that have been brought to her over the past few moons, the rumours of Jon with the Dragon Queen, the dances he danced with his silver-haired aunt, of the her well-known fondness for him, of Sansa’s letter about the babe she carries that Jon did not even respond to – she finds her happiness fleeing, all the memories tainted with bitterness now, with a sense of impending sorrow, and loss, and _envy._

She is beautiful, Sansa knows, Queen Daenerys – with her long silver hair, and those violet eyes, and her lithe built. She is nothing like how Sansa presently feels – plump and bloated, with her ever-expanding belly, and her swollen ankles and the persistent weariness of the past few weeks. It was how Sansa had looked the last time she had met the Dragon Queen, too… when she had been carrying Robb, and was weary and worried with all that was going on around them, with bags under her eyes, donning faded gowns and multiple furs for the cold which only made her look huger, while Daenerys had come flying on her majestic black dragon, silver hair flying behind her, her rich robes of the strange fashion of the east displaying more skin that seemed healthy in the biting cold of the winter. Sansa remembers how dull and tawdry and _small_ she had felt next to the regal, awe-inspiring woman; and how the Dragon Queen had whisked Jon away almost right after Robb was born, having him mount Viserion and fly with her to wage war against the Others. And while Sansa did not mind staying back and ruling the North in Rickon’s stead, she was ever mindful of the fact that Jon was off with his aunt, who was said to have spoken more than once of taking him, the last of her blood, as her husband and king consort before he wed Sansa.

 _I am being silly,_ she rebukes herself as she thinks of the reports she has received from the south, of the amount of time Jon and Daenerys have reportedly spent together in the past moons, of the Targaryen queen’s desire for a husband to father her children to rule after her, of her affection for Jon and the meals they took together every day… and of Jon’s own fondness for _Dany,_ as he calls her.

She thinks of the letters he often writes to his aunt, of the battles he sometimes speaks of, of the smile on his face and the reminiscent glimmer in his eyes when tells Rickon of the time Daenerys and he had wreaked fire and destruction on all the Wights below, the two Targaryens on their two dragons, silvery-haired Daenerys on the black Drogon, and dark-haired Jon on the cream and gold Viserion. They had looked glorious, she has heard; and in the past few weeks, she has imagined them often in her mind’s eye, Jon and Daenerys – him, as calm and dark as the coldest night, and her, as bright and lively as a summer day, dragons both, warriors, fire and ice, with a unrivalled bond between them that stems from their shared blood, from the dragons they rode, from the war they fought together through ups and downs and losses and tears, and that final victory over the Great Other when Jon had collapsed to the ground in sheer relief mingled with joy and grief, Longclaw falling from his grasp, Daenerys gathering him in an embrace…

 _Is this how you felt, Mother?_ she wonders, as she stares at the walls that her mother had once dwelt within, imagining Daenerys consoling Jon when Ghost breathed his last in the battle, while Sansa was miles away, only Shaggydog’s mournful howls and Rickon’s wails telling her of the beloved direwolf’s death… _Is this how you felt when you thought of Father with Jon’s mother?_

She imagines them in happier times, too, in Daenerys’ southern court, where the courtiers whisper about their queen wanting to wed Jon and the merits of the match; after all the Targaryens were never averse to having two wives, even if it meant Daenerys would be Jon’s second wife… _like Rhaenys,_ she thinks, _who was second to Visenya, but always first in Aegon’s heart…_

She imagines them in Daenerys’ newly-built Great Hall, too… Myranda had watched Jon dancing with his aunt to Tom O’ Seven’s songs, even though Jon has never danced with _Sansa_ yet, not even at the small celebration they had after their hasty wedding…

And she imagines him in Daenerys’ bed, making love to the violet-eyed beauty like he did to Sansa, but with far more passion between them, borne out of the love she thinks they bear for each other. She chastises herself for the thoughts even as the images want to make her growl like Shaggydog does when someone angers him.

 _I am being silly,_ she thinks, gathering a grip on herself. Jon is still Father’s son, she knows. And Father had never broken his vows to Mother. _Nor will Jon,_ she tells herself.

But then why did he never respond to her letter about the babe, though he wrote back to all of Rickon’s? Why did he say nothing of their child that grows in her womb? Why did he tell her nothing about what was going on his southern stay? Why did he spend _so_ many hours with Daenerys that tongues had begun wagging despite Jon having a lawfully-wedded wife and a trueborn son back home?  

 _The babe is making me so maudlin,_ she decides, remembering what Maester Sam told her: that Jon would never break his wedding vows to her, that he was fond of the Dragon Queen only because she was the last of his true father’s blood, that he would never undermine the sanctity of their marriage…  and that _one_ thing that the plump Maester had told her hesitantly, tripping over his words and fiddling with his sleeve: _I know Jon, my princess,_ the Maester had said, not meeting her eyes and stuttering, _I know he cares for you. He—he may not know it yet, but he—he—he loves you, Your Grace…_

She doubts the Maester’s words, of course. She does not think Jon loves her; but yet, the thought of him feeling for her what she feels for him is one that makes butterflies join the babe in her belly, until Myranda’s words and her spies’ letters seep back into her thoughts, her mood swinging from hope to hurt in mere moments.

 _It_ is _the babe,_ she decides, it is being with child that is making her so overtly emotional when she is otherwise so good at garnering a grip on her true feelings. Why else would she behave so pettily to show her displeasure to Jon? Sitting in her chambers when she should have been out with the rest of the castle to greet her husband? Mother would never have done something like that to Father, she knows… but to be honest, for all that she looks a Tully like her Mother, she knows she has a wee sprinkling of the temperamental wolf blood in her, which seems to multiply when she is pregnant… or perhaps it is the babe’s wolf blood singing… because this babe is all wolf, she knows. Unlike Robb who was so quiet in the womb that she was afraid something was wrong with him, this new child is the very opposite, keeping her awake at nights with all its kicks, and growing bigger in her stomach at seven moons than Robb was at nine…

 _It is a girl,_ she thinks, smiling.

Rickon keeps saying it is a boy, another nephew for him to love. But Sansa agrees with Old Nan’s intuition that it a girl – a little girl with the wolf blood, like Arya, and like Aunt Lyanna, too, Jon’s mother… She had hoped once, for a child with the Targaryen’s ethereal beauty and those beautiful violet eyes, a child who would be testimony to Jon’s true father, to shut the tongues that still whisper about theirs being an incestuous union between brother and sister.

But now, she wants nothing in the child that would remind her of the Dragon Queen… she wants the babe to be like little Robb, like Arya and Father and Aunt Lyanna, like _Jon,_ with the Northern colouring, and a long face and unruly, dark hair… or like Mother, with brilliant red hair and bright Tully eyes…

The sudden sound of firm, nearing footsteps jolts her out of her thoughts, and she sits up properly, pulling the furs around herself. There’s a queer feeling in her stomach that has nothing to do with the babe she is carrying – and she knows that it is eagerness rising over the melancholy bitterness yet again. She cannot wait to see her lord husband after the long moons they have spent apart, despite all that she has heard of him, despite all that she has come to dread and believe of him and the Dragon Queen.

He knocks on her door lightly, ever the courteous man. “My lady? Princess?”

The sound of his voice makes her heart skip a beat. She has imagined him calling out her name, on sleepless nights when her hand slips beneath her skirts and she pictures Jon in her bed, his head between her legs, and his lips and tongue doing unmentionable things to her.

But those three simple words he utters now seem to give her more of a thrill than even pleasuring herself did.

“Come in,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady, trying to remember that she is furious with him.

He enters quietly; and time seems to slow down when she claps her eyes on him: he has worn the doublet she had sewn as a gift for his nameday; his beard has grown longer now and he seems to have put on some weight, but his long face is still the same as the one she has come to love, with those dark eyes that she only now realises contain panic and worry.

“Are you well, Sansa?” he asks her, his hands extending a little towards her and then pulling back, almost as if he meant to embrace her but then thought the better of it.

“I am well, my prince,” she says, standing up now, finding her lips threatening to pull into a smile despite herself, walking to him.

She can smell his familiar scent now – a faint scent of the horse he has ridden, something of the wolf he shared a skin with, and something that reminds her of the weirwoods, something of the North. And she wants nothing better than to put her arms around him, press her lips to his, and have his hands tangle in her hair as he tugs her closer.

But she remembers the rumours, remembers that she is miffed with him, and says nothing.

“Sansa!” Jon whispers suddenly, and when she looks at him, she finds his eyes wide, his lips parted in surprise as he stares at her swell of her stomach that is visible under her gown.

“Sansa, my lady,” he gasps again, covering the distance between them in two long strides, and placing his warm hand on her belly, and one around her waist. The babe kicks, and she sees Jon’s lips pull into a wide smile, something glittering in the depths of his grey eyes.

She moves to instinctively put her arms around him, her heart soaring at the slightest of his touch, simultaneously wondering why he seems surprised at her state. But he lets go of her and moves back, a little flush in his cheeks as he meets her gaze, seeming stunned himself at his gesture that is so unlike him. They are never affectionate with each other like this, unless it is for trying to conceive a child. But despite her disgruntlement with him, she finds that she is feeling delightfully warm at his unexpected closeness to her, the way his arm went around her waist, the way he caressed her stomach with that awed look on his face.

“Forgive me, my princess. I should not have—” he begins quietly, stepping further away from, making her already miss his warmth; and though she knows his words are because of the lack of easy gestures between them, she remembers Myranda telling her of how comfortable Jon was with Daenerys, never having to second-guess his actions like he is now doing with Sansa.

“I am your _wife_ ,” she tells him coolly, though she is still thinking over the surprise he seemed to feel on seeing her pregnant, “You do not have to apologise for this, nor for wanting to feel your child, my lord. I am pleased that you _do_ care for our child.”

“Of course I do,” he exclaims, frowning faintly, seeming to note the steeliness that has entered her tone.

“Is that why you sent no reply to my letter informing you that I am with child?” she asks him after a beat, watching his frown deepen.

“I got no letter, my lady,” he says simply, _honestly,_ with nothing to suggest that he is lying.

“I wrote to you!” she exclaims. “I wrote to you when the child quickened, and I saw Maester Tarly send the raven.”

“But I received no letter, my lady,” he repeats.

She fights a smile at his words, feeling a sense of blessed relief coupled with a tinge of self-rebuke at how quick she was to think the worst of her husband. She knows Jon loves Robb, that he thinks the world of their little boy. Why should he be any different for this second child?

“If I had known,” Jon goes on, “I would have taken leave of Dany sooner and returned to Winterfell.”

Distaste prickles at her skin now, the ease with which he utters Daenerys’ name making her suspicions resurface. It makes her mad sometimes, that he calls Daenerys _Dany_ when he is still so formal with Sansa, always calling her _my lady_ or _my princess._ He rarely calls her _Sansa_ unless they are lying together; and he has never yet called her _my love_ like Father used to call Mother. _But Father loved Mother,_ she thinks, _and Jon does not love me._

“My lady?” says Jon softly, his tone enquiring, almost as if he can sense the conundrum she finds herself in.

How has she let herself be reduced to this, she wonders, where a few words from Jon can make her simmering hurt flicker into a flare of joy and then erupt into a burst of envy again?

 _It is because I love him,_ she knows, _even though he may never feel the same for me._

“What is wrong, princess?” Jon asks her again, making her wonder whether the battle between her mind and her heart is reflecting on her expressions – something that would never have happened before she fell in love with her husband. Or is it that Jon knows her well enough by now that even her silence speaks unspoken words to him?

“I sent you a raven when the child quickened,” she admits, in a voice that sounds small to her ears, “But you did not reply, my lord, and I thought…” she trails off.

“Thought what?” he asks her, curiously.

“That you were too busy spending time with your _aunt_ to write back to your wife,” she says, remembering Myranda’s words.

“What is that supposed to mean?” asks Jon, as perplexed as the naïve boy he once was. “I am never too busy for you, my lady, you must know that by now. And I spent time with Dany because we had matters of the realm to discuss – the boundaries of our kingdoms to be marked, the loans taken from the Iron Bank for the war, trade treaties between our kingdoms, and—you _know_ all this. We spoke of this before I left for the south… this was _why_ I went to visit Dany, to treat with her regarding these matters—”                                                                                                                          

Sansa finds her gaze dropping downwards now, away from the sheer honesty in his eyes, her cheeks flaming, wishing she could take the words back the moment she uttered them, wishing she could take back all the doubts she had regarding Jon in the first place.

Of _course_ Jon had gone to treat with Daenerys; Sansa and he and their council had worked on the boundaries and the trade treaties before he left. And she feels like a foolish little girl for all that she suspected of her lord husband based on an undelivered letter and a clutch of rumours of the closeness between Jon and his aunt _,_ the long hours he reportedly spent in her solar stretching well into the night at times, Daenerys’ publicly expressed wish of birthing an heir…

Jon looks at her now, a flicker of understanding taking over his hitherto bewilderment. He is silent, as if waiting for her to gather her thoughts and speak, though a hint of _amusement_ enters his gaze now, and something else that she cannot quite place.

“Were you— _are_ you jealous of the time I spent with Dany, my lady?” He asks her; his lips are twitching, she sees, apparently delighted that he has caught her out; and her cheeks flame even warmly.

“Of course not!” she exclaims, trying to gather whatever remains of her famed level-headedness.

“You _are_!” he interrupts her, eyes shining with mirth now, though the expression he sports is the one he has when Robb does something utterly adorable, when Jon gathers their boy in his arms, and peppers his chubby cheeks with kisses, and murmurs that he loves him so much.

“I’m not,” she repeats.

He takes a step closer to her, the fluttering in her belly resuming for some reason.

“All you did is dance a few dances with her, and confer with her for hours in her solar every day – there’s nothing for me to be envious of!” She hears herself saying, her treacherous mouth seeming to have a mind of its own.

Jon’s grin broadens, and he takes another step towards her. “I danced with her, because I could not refuse a queen in public, my lady. It would have been unbecoming of me to have refused my aunt, although I can assure you that she wasn’t so keen on a dance with me again when I stepped on her feet one time too many. It seems I am as clumsy at dancing now as I was when you used to teach me when we were children.” Jon smiles; and Sansa finds herself returning his smile at the memory of teaching Jon how to dance, years ago, when he was still her half-brother and she was still the silly little girl who dreamt of knights and songs.

“And all those hours I spent with Dany,” he goes on, a little hesitantly, “I... well, I wished you were with me, my lady, every moment of it. You are far better at diplomacy than I am, and even better at knowing my mind without me having to voice my thoughts,” he says softly, never ceasing in his advance towards her, one step at a time, making her feel suddenly shy, like she did when he whispered words that made her redden while he moved inside her, moons ago, her peak mere moments away as she moaned breathlessly.

“So that is all there was to it?” she hears herself saying, “Diplomacy? Even in the letters you write to _Dany_ every moon, which are nothing like those formal ones you sent me?”

“If I was a wordsmith like the singers in the songs you used to love, I would have written to you of how much I missed you, my lady,” Jon says after a long moment, making her heartbeats speed up now. “But I am afraid I don’t have much of a way with words… but that does not mean I did not long for you these past six moons.”

Sansa is smiling now; his words, so unexpected and so openly spoken for someone as reserved as him, make her want to pull him into an embrace and press her lips to his, hear the rasp of his beard as he kisses down the column of her neck, like he did the very last time they had lain together.

“I am the last of Dany’s blood, my lady,” Jon goes on, “That is why I write to her so often. For all that she is such a renowned queen, Dany is still a lonely girl at heart sometimes. And I know it pleases her to have me write to her. I am her family, my lady, despite whatever disagreements she has with me.”

“Disagreements?” Sansa asks him, though she doesn’t even care for them at the moment; all she wants it to tug off Jon's doublet and unlace his breeches and tumble onto the bed with him, the wantonness of her thoughts making her flush darker.  

“Yes,” says Jon uneasily, though his eyes are still dark with what she thinks is desire, “We argued about Robb.”

 “Robb?” Sansa asks, feeling a flicker of worry, her lust fleeing as suddenly as it arose.

What does the Dragon Queen want with Robb?

“Dany wishes to adopt Robb as her heir,” replies Jon quietly. “She wishes for Rickon to give up his kingship, and unite the Seven Kingdoms under Robb again—”

“Never,” swears Sansa, her heart racing in sudden fear instead of the desire that sped it mere moments ago. “My son shall never go south. And Rickon _is_ the King. The North and the Riverlands shall remain a separate kingdom. No Stark shall bow to a dragon again, even if the dragon is my own son—”

“Sansa,” says Jon comfortingly; but Sansa can only think of her horrific days at Kings’ Landing, of watching Father’s head severed from his body, of the beatings at the hands of the Kingsguard, and the days she spent trying to avoid Petyr’s lecherous advances in the Vale, and the bloodshed at the Twins, and Lady Stoneheart, and all the horrors she saw in the south over the years.

“Robb shall _never_ go south, neither Robb nor this babe,” she whispers, her hand on her stomach.

“Of course he shall not—” begins Jon, but Sansa is still in the blind panic that imagining Robb in the south brings to her, thoughts of lying with Jon long forgotten.

“For the love I bear you, Jon, swear to me that our children shall never go south, you shall not let Daenerys take them away from me,” she implores him, “Promise me, Jon.”

She looks at him, waiting for his answer, waiting for his promise. But Jon only stares at her, wide-eyed.

“What did you say?” he asks her, his voice suddenly gruff.

“Promise me that—” she stops, recollecting her own words. _For the love I bear you, my lord,_ she had said, blurting out her secret in her fear for her son. She finds her face warming up now, feeling suddenly coy as Jon gazes at her, his expression undecipherable.

“I—I said that I—” she begins, only to decide to admit the truth, _properly,_ honourably and bravely and truthfully, like the Stark she is. “I _do_ love you, Jon. I have loved you for many moons now.” Her heart is aflutter with disbelief and relief and joy at her admission, but with doubt too, as she waits for his response. But he says nothing, merely watches her mutely, as if she didn’t just bare her heart to him.

“I know that—" she goes on when he remains silent, "—that you may not feel the same for me—”

“Oh, Sansa,” Jon interrupts her, a blazing look on his face, coming close to her and cupping her face hesitantly with both his hands, his warm breath falling on her lips, and his eyes shining with emotion. “I _do_ feel the same for you, Sansa," he whispers, "These weeks I spent away from you made me realise just what you mean to me. I am no good with words, you know that. But you must know that I am in love with you, Sansa, _only_ you, more than I can ever tell you—” 

She does not let him finish, as she closes the distance between them, putting her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his, feeling like she is melting in his embrace, as his lips part, his tongue meeting her waiting one, exploring her mouth thoroughly, his hand at the small of her back. A familiar, heady warmth builds in the pit of her stomach, and he tries to tug her even closer to him. But her pregnant belly gets in the way, and he pulls back, chuckling softly as he rests his forehead against hers, while she feels like she can soar as high as Jon’s Viserion once did, her heart racing as their breaths mingle.

“You never told me,” he whispers, his hand falling gently to her stomach, while he holds her close, her face resting in the crook of his neck while she feels his heart thudding as madly as hers. “You never told me that you loved me.”

“Nor did you, Jon,” she points out, feeling like she can laugh and cry all at once for the sheer extent of happiness she is feeling, for intimacy with him that is devoid of any of their earlier hesitation, for his words about loving her that keep ringing in her ears. She had never expected this, never known he returned the love she feels for him.

“Looks like we have Dany to thank for that,” he quips. “If she hadn’t called me south, I wouldn’t have been away from you, and I wouldn’t have realised how much I love you… and _you_ wouldn’t have got jealous and admitted that you love me—”

“I wasn’t jealous,” she lies half-heartedly, hearing him chuckle.

He only raises an eyebrow wryly, still smiling wider than she has seen him smile.

“I _wasn’t_ envious,” she protests, pouting now. “I was only—” but he captures her lips with his before she can speak, his hands already fumbling with the laces on her gown.

And by the time she is lying on the bed, dazed and panting, Jon’s mouth finally leaving her fuller breasts that he had been exploring, and he gently flips her on top of him, his hands on her waist and his eyes dark and wanting as she descends on him, clenching around his manhood, his voice gruff and throaty as he mutters about _how_ much he loves her, she decides that she perhaps does have _Dany_ to thank after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for the reviews and kudos! :)

**Author's Note:**

> I used up all my phone battery playing Pokemon Go, leaving me with nothing to do on the train back home from work! That's when I started thinking of the next part of writing for 'The Last Wolves', and came up with this instead. This is not beta'ed, and typed up in barely twenty minutes, so do forgive the mistakes, if any.  
> The next part will be Sansa's POV :)


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